from the cloudy skies.
Dewdrops on a morning blade.
Running rivers from blue eyes.

Lolling in the Everglades.
Streaming in my clawfoot tub.
Sudsy as I sprawl and scrub.

The kettle says it hot.
Steaming in the ***.
Swirling down the drain.

A puddle in the rain.
Pour it in the coffee grounds.
But it makes some men drown.

It’s a part of me.
A drink for the flowers.
This garden’s raised on showers.

The birds wet their feathers.
Cleans the stain off my leather.
Pitter-patter on the windowpane.

How it grows the honey grain.
We need it to survive.
It keeps us all alive.

I ate it
wallowed in it
added water to make made mud pies
I planted in it
grew flowers colorful as butterflies
I carried it into my house
wore it on my buckled leather shoes
it stained my white lace dress
brown handprints on the walls
the halls looked a mess
it hardened on mother’s kitchen floor
in dark footprints she didn't ignore
she whipped me with the wooden spoon
locked me in my room till noon
stuck under my fingernails
in the tub left a ring
I dished it out with friends
gee, those girls can sling
the men it's on their minds
they roll in it as pigs
ha, they all are suited swines!
washed out in the laundry
read in girly magazines
kicked up in the baseball field
the visiting and home teams

between my toes
in my shoes
up my nose
tossed in spaghetti hair

in my red beach towel
on my plastic chair
itching me
in my underwear

smells of ocean
taste of salt
in slow-motion
the world just melts

in my car seat
drizzling pelts
sprayed on the Persian rug
between the bedroom sheets

in my coffee mug??
beneath my feet
now the gritty crunching
between my teeth

women like me
that have neon signs
from their head to their knees
flashing letter “L” in megawatt caps

that men like to tap
it’s water-colored eyes
blinking dewdrops
running down men’s lies

it’s a cherry prison
a heaving chest so risen
it's the droning of the wind
her confidence so thinned

it’s the butterflies tied
the crushed wings
that once danced
and flied

years digging out of holes
just like burrowing moles
it's tramping through the sludge
that's a daily drudge

onyx black
glossy from front to back
looking up from the walnut coffee table
across from the television and cable

years in the making
if it’d rise as the bread baking
but it doesn't wear a jacket
and a lot of men just sack it

letters in printed lithography
a creamy paged biography
nursed, as a mother with her babies
but through the rabidness gave rabies

bended spine and stained
every line the writer pained
can’t make the New York Best seller's list
closed off like a fluid-filled cyst

no editor, agent or publisher
not in volumes like the travels of Gulliver
this self-published and vanity
leads to a life of insanity!

on the ceiling fan,
lying carpet of grey strands.
Flying blades circle overhead
moving heat through the chalky

air. Dust bunnies hiding
underneath the bureau and rocking
chair. Under the four-post bed
they roast. As foie gras

on toast they sit plump. Dumped
on the valance and curtain. Unbalanced,
the slightest wind and they’ll fall
for certain. On the shelf they cover

her books. In the nooks they lay
as a clump of potter's clay. On the hardwood
floor swept up with the broom. Upon death
she'll be dust in the ground with her groom.

to him, light and flaky
honey wheat. Just fluffy
bedtime sweet! Yellow like
a golden raisin, and twice

as brazen. He didn't have
to butter me. I was soft
as the brie. And he saw through
every layer. He was so the

player. The girls said "he's
a dish" And so, he was
my knish. And I, his knash,
rolled and folded till I

melted in his mouth. Till I
crumbled in his hand, landed
in his lap. So full, he took
a nap. But after his long doze?

Gone was his sweet rose!